


Soup For The Soul

by Legendaerie



Category: Marvel (Comics)
Genre: Canon Divergent, Canon-Typical Violence, Community Service, M/M, Rated for Deadpool's Language, Terrible Jokes, additional tags to follow, food service, implied polyamory
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-14
Updated: 2016-03-22
Packaged: 2018-05-26 16:36:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6247510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Legendaerie/pseuds/Legendaerie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Infamous mercenary Deadpool and recently-tarnished CEO Peter Parker try to work together for some community service. It goes over about as well as you’d expect.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Gather the Ingredients

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bettiqua](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bettiqua/gifts).



> I haven't watched the Deadpool movie yet (or the Andrew Garfield ones), nor I am into comics much at all, but when Betsey asks me to write some Deadman on commish, I drop everything.
> 
> Takes place in some weird parallel to the most recent Spiderman/Deadpool comics - at the time of writing, issue #2. Canon divergent/compliant.
> 
> comments/crits appreciated! like, seriously appreciated.

Under his mask, Deadpool fakes a deep, dramatic inhale. "I love the smell of burning bodies in the evening," he starts, crossing his one-and-a-half arms in front of him as he stares at the controlled inferno. Spiderman is audibly scowling at him from across the crematorium they'd "borrowed" in order to clean up the mess from the most recent battle for New York. The guy they'd been fighting had a body comprised mostly of swords - pity he was using them to impale police officers and whatnot - and Deadpool had gone out on a limb once or twice to try to save civilians. Rather literally.

Losing his primary jack-off arm had been entirely worth it to fling the severed appendage in Spiderman's direction when he'd asked for a hand. Said appendage, along with half of his foot, is blazing merrily away before him as the last step in their clean-up for the night. The rest of the casualties, and thankfully there's not more than a dozen or so, are in the hospital.

“Can I trust you not to leave bloodstains all over the place when you leave?” the younger of the two red-suited supers asks.

Deadpool tilts his head, emoting a shit-eating grin. “Only if this means I can play with the cadavers.” 

Spiderman snorts and storms down the hall; Deadpool limps after him, smearing crimson half-footprints behind him as he goes. “I was kidding, I was kidding. Jesus, kid.”

“Don't call me kid.”

"What, want me to call you baby?”

A withering glance is kind of hard to pull off through a mask, but Spiderman manages. 

“Comrade?” Deadpool presses, affecting a fake Russian accent - not that he couldn’t do a real one, but a cringe-worthy imitation is just funnier. 

His companion ignores him entirely, tugging on a locked door.“Get over here and help me unlock this.”

“Senpai?” he lilts sweetly, even as he limps over and smears even more blood across the floor.

“Wade.”

It takes a bit of jimmying, during which Spiderman stares holes in the back of his head and offers absolutely no help, but he gets the closet open. Inside are your typical cleaning supplies - mop, bucket, twenty different unlabeled bottles of fluid that are all at least half empty (an optimist, Deadpool is not) and a bucket of rags. Deadpool picks the cleanest of the bunch and ties them as best as he can around his  foot and arm - mostly just to stop the blood from soiling even more of the tiled floor.

“Need a h--” his companion cuts himself off with a satisfyingly disgusted noise. Deadpool smiles broadly with his entire body. “Help?” Spiderman concludes through his teeth.

“Do I need a help? Yes,I wouldn’t mind a help. Probably be easiest just to mop all this shit up, so.” And he tosses a bucket over his shoulder. The gentle thump of plastic against flesh tells him the object was caught, and Deadpool starts flipping through the bottles, looking for any possible labels.

Spiderman groans again. “Why do you always make me regret working with you?”

It’s an offhand remark, thrown out as his companion leaves to find the nearest sink, but it still kind of stings. Not much in the grand scheme of things, maybe a four on the standard pain scale or a point zero nine on his, but still. He preoccupies himself with smelling as many chemicals as he can, picking the one that smells the most like it was made to get blood out of things, and pours half the contents in Spiderman’s bucket when he returns.

The water bucket gets poured into the mop bucket-cart-thing, and Deadpool wheels it out into the hallway. He kind of haphazardly slops water all over the place until Spiderman shooes him away and starts cleaning up the floor himself with a muttered “stay still and try not to drip too badly everywhere, okay?”

“What would it take for you to trust me,” Deadpool starts, then tacks on a playful “honey?” at the end because it sounded a little too earnest. Not that he isn’t serious, but Spiderman tends to get a little cranky at the end of the day. And it feels a little early in the week to be bringing out The Feelings™.

“Community service,” his companion quips as he wrings out the mop with a crank of the webbed press on the mop-cart, and resumes his cleaning.

“Seriously?”

“There’s more to helping people than killing bad guys,” Spiderman insists as he rounds the corner. Deadpool considers this, wiggling his nearly-reformed toes. He’s done worse.

“So, what. We talking soup kitchen? Donate my old purple paisley shirt? Help a cat out of a tree?”

“You sound like the world’s worst boy scout trying to earn the last of their badges.” Spiderman’s voice is muffled from being in the other room, but at least he doesn’t seem angry. By the time he finishes and comes back, jolting Deadpool out of a long train of thought, he’s only got a few extra inches left to grow on his arm. “You ready?”

“Yeah. Thanks for mopping.”

Spiderman just shoves the cart his way. “You have to go dump the water in the toilet, though.”

“Anything for you, Spidey.” And he probably means it just a little too much as he pads away, but he’s got other shit on his mind.

 

* * *

 

“You’re kidding me,” Peter Parker pleads over the intercom at his desk. Any feeling of irony or deja-vu is overshadowed by the deep, nauseating feeling of dread currently settling into the pit of his stomach like a drowsy cat made entirely of anxiety.

_ “You know I’m not.”  _ Of course, Anna Maria doesn’t kid. Not about big stuff like this.  _ “Our reputation’s really taken a blow after the most recent scandal. Plus, you could use the change of pace to de-stress.” _

“I really don’t think working at a food pantry is going to feel like much of a vacation.” He looks out the window of his office, ever concerned for the latest disaster. Yeah, he’s tense all over at any point in the day, but… “Especially not if it’s swarmed by cameras and security all the time.”

_ “It's just for a couple hours, twice a week.”  _ Anna Maria assures him.  _ “And the outreach center said they'd love the press.” _

Peter drags his hand down his face. “You already have this all set up, don't you.”

_ “I like to cross all my Ts,” _ comes her chipper reply. 

“Fine.” There's no point in arguing further, then. And nothing she's said is wrong, per say; they do need the PR, and the center always needs extra help. “When would they want me to start?”

_ “You have plans tonight?” _

“You know I don't,” he says, a falsely cheerful note in his tone. “Aside from the usual stuff, which I'm sure I can just--”

_ “The kid can handle being by himself. Plus, don't you have a babysitter now?” _ Anna Maria continues coyly, speaking in code. Better for an eavesdropper to assume Peter has some lovechild tucked away somewhere than the alternative.

“Which one of them is the babysitter, though," he mumbles under his breath. "What time do I start?"

_ “I told them seven pm. Gives you time to get home, get changed.” _

Peter sighs heavily and gives up. "I'll be there.”

And four hours later he keeps his word, pulling up to the front entrance of the Second Helpings Food Pantry & Soup Kitchen as news vans circle like flies on a carcass. He forces a smile and waves as he wades through the sea of questions, gives a couple statements to reports that he forgets immediately afterwards but were probably about “worthy cause” and “civic duty” and “outreach.” He forgets these phrases not because he wasn't paying attention - he was - and not because he wasn't hyper-aware of the cameras - again, he was - but because upon entering the kitchen he comes face to face with a tall, muscular man in a skin-tight black and red suit and apron.

“Wa--” he catches himself just in time, spluttering over the mutant's real name, “Deadpool? What are you doing here?”

“Community service,” comes the cheerful, if slightly muffled reply. The man is standing at the massive, slightly worn pair of steel sinks, working his way through a mountain of dishes. Bright yellow gloves cling to his biceps, rolled slightly down at the cuff, and there is a hairnet on top of his hood that only adds to the absurdity. No swords, however.

“I didn't think New York was your hometown,” Peter says absently, suddenly aware of the cameras just outside. They'd not been given permission to enter, but he gives them another minute before somebody inevitably finds a loophole or a window. He turns to a tall woman with a no-nonsense look and a tight bun of silvery hair. “Is he--”

“Just showed up. I hope this doesn't bother you too much, Mr. Parker,” she says in calm tones that imply she doesn't care one way or the other if he's put out. “I'm Gladys. I spoke with Anna Maria. though Mr. Pool was not initially part of her plans.”

“No, no, it's--” he accepts the bundle of things handed to him, finding a carbon copy of all the accessories Deadpool is currently sporting. “I'll be fine.”

“Then please,” and she ushers him to the bathroom, "wash up before entering the kitchen."

Peter lets himself get bullied out of the room, scrubs his hands (including under his fingernails) and dons the whole ridiculous set of apron, hairnet, and gloves. He elbows the door open, careful not to touch anything, and steps back into the kitchen just in time for Gladys to start passing out orders.

The kitchen is nearly three times the size of Aunt May's, with multiple sink stations, a full wall of burners and at least four ovens. A myriad of mismatched, well-worn pots and pans dangle above the white-puffed heads of the other volunteers in hairnets around the center island, with cabinets on the other two walls. The last wall is dominated by a single heavy metal door Peter assumes leads to the fridge.

"Do you know how to brown meat, Mr. Pool?" Gladys asks.

"Probably not in the way you're meaning,” he quips back, and Peter has to bite the inside of his cheek to stop from replying to that. Peter Parker is not supposed to know the man behind the Deadpool mask, and he’s certainly not supposed to have a reason to argue with him.

She picks up a small crate of cans and drops it on the nearest counter. “Then open six cans of kidney beans, six cans of black beans, and ten cans of tomato juice.”

“Can do!” Deadpool answers cheerfully, drying his gloves on his apron. Before he can stop himself this time, Peter blurts out a warning.

“Using a can opener. Not your swords.”

The masked man turns and leers at him. Or maybe glares. There's more hostility in the set of his shoulders than he's used to seeing directed at him. “Well, now I really don't want to use the can openers,” is all he says, in a tone that’s a little too cool to be playful. 

“Use the can openers,” Gladys orders with a distinct sense of finality, and then turns to Peter. "Mr. Parker, please assist Michelle with the cornbread.”

With some trepidation, Peter turns his back on Deadpool and retreats to the other side of the kitchen. At least he doesn’t have to worry about Deadpool being too friendly with him.


	2. Mix well

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I forgot to update yesterday oops. next week's might be a little late, sorry in advance if it does.

 

So working alongside Peter Parker, Scumdog Millionaire, was not exactly part of his plan. It had been rather impulsive, actually, but by the time he'd talked the steely Gladys into letting him wear the suit - “trust me, I look like a chicken nugget without the crispy coating under here. It's better for everyone if this stays on” - he already felt committed enough to the venture that when Parker arrived, it was too late to back out. Especially when he learned that Parker was going to be volunteering twice a week for the next few months, and had made faces every time they bumped into each other during their first dinner service.

But Spiderman is the one to bring it up first, when they're winding down after an armored car chase that ended with fishing crooks out of the water. Said car is currently twenty feet below them on the side of the bridge, dangling from a series of thick webbed ropes, with the unlucky perps cuffed together with zipties. Traffic is slowly resuming after the chaos, but both vigilantes have to stick around until the cops arrive to pick up the suspects.

Perched next to him on one of the wider metal struts, Spiderman finally speaks. “So I heard you're working at a soup kitchen now.” At best, he sounds unimpressed and at worst, suspicious. Overall, not that different from the norm.

Deadpool slicks his hands down his suit, trying to squeegee off water as best as he can. He can't catch pneumonia, but wet clothes tend to chafe and he only like that shit in specific contexts, thank you. Water spatters the ground below, and one of the criminals mutters angrily. “Volunteering, actually,” he corrects him. “I'm hoping by the end of the month they'll let me cut the vegetables. With my swords. Wouldn't that be awesome?”

“It sounds unsanitary,” comes the cool reply. Spiderman leans around a vertical support, likely spotting the distant flash of sirens and counting the seconds until he can leave.

“You do know there are better things to shove up your ass then sticks, right?”

Spiderman just glowers back. Deadpool shrugs, turning away by force of habit and taking off his mask just long enough to wring it out. He continues talking anyway, because he likes talking to Spiderman. Or at Spiderman, as the case may be.

“Has your boss been tattling on me? Because they're all lies. I've been behaving myself in there, you know, even though it's totally a den of silver foxes.”

“I know,” his companion cuts him off, “I'm just... a little uneasy. You're working at the same place as Peter Parker, and I know you're not exactly his biggest fan.”

“Compared to you, I’m not.” Deadpool pulls his mask back on, grimacing at the smell of polluted saltwater and fish clinging to the fabric. “I'm not there to kill your boss, though. Probably. Unless someone offers to pay me big time for it. Hey, maybe Petey would wanna pay me to protect him?”

“Not a chance.”

One of the rescued criminals starts to stir - Deadpool shoots him a glance, then snaps back to look at Spiderman. It’s hard to tell through the masks, but he suspects their eyes meet.

“Why are you really there, then?” Spiderman asks softly.

It’s an easy answer. _Because you said I should; because you’re the best standard of morality I know; because I like it here and I wouldn’t mind making New York my community._ But he leaves all of those unsaid, crosses his arms damply, and replies.

“I already told you, man. Den of silver foxes.”

Spiderman relaxes - when did he tense up? He wasn't even the one who went swimming -  and shakes his head. “I'm never gonna get a straight answer out of you, am I?” he asks instead. Which kind of sounds like a non-sequitur so Deadpool deflects with a joke.

“Nope. Might get a bi answer out of me, though. Or, wait, what's the term all the cool kids are using now? Tri? No, that's not it. Higher number. Pi? I know it starts with a P…”

“Ha ha,” Spiderman states, his words as dry as his clothes. “Just be sure to wash that suit before you show up to volunteer again.” Then they catch the sound of sirens in the distance, and Spiderman whisks himself away.

 

* * *

 

Whether he cleans the suit or not, the next time they work together Gladys seems prepared. By the time Peter arrives, there's a large wet patch in the middle of the hallway just outside the kitchen, and a rather saturated Deadpool is hiding beside the door frame.

“I'm serious, this suit is way less of a healthcode violation than I'd be without it. The suit is like... a full-body condom. Except my dick is--” the rest of his reply is cut off in a yelp as Gladys, using the hose attachment on the massive twin sinks, hits him with another blast.

“I can smell blood on your clothes from here. Go change. I even bought your size.”

“Yeah, but…” This time, he trails off at the sight of Peter, and some of the fight leaves his body. With an undignified squeal of shoe sole on wet floor, Deadpool pivots and stalks into the bathroom. Peter steps cautiously up to the doorway of the kitchen.

“Everything all right here?”

Still wielding the hose like a firearm, Gladys gives him a cool look. “The situation is entirely under control, Mr. Parker. Please go wash your hands and put on your uniform.”

Dutifully, he takes the offered bundle of clothes from before and heads to the men's bathroom, a two-stalled and tiny affair that really does smell faintly of blood. As he opens the door, there's a wet slap; Deadpool's uniform drapes itself over the top of the handicapped stall door and he hears the faint rustling of someone changing clothes.

He's tempted to make a smart remark, but really, he'd prefer not to provoke the mutant today. It's near the end of a rather stressful week - a trying week as Peter Parker, not to mention as Spiderman - and he doesn't trust himself to stay civil if he speaks. The last thing he wants is a fight with Deadpool while he's trying to clean up his image.

And he doesn't mean to look when Wade emerges, leaving his wet clothes draped over the stall door, but Peter's eyes are automatically drawn to the motion. He's seen glimpses before, of the war-torn, scarred skin usually concealed by his suit, but Peter swears the skin is actually moving. Like a time lapse of injuries forming and healing, over and over. The effect is a little unsettling.

“Don't stare,” Wade quips, his mouth hidden behind a surgical mask, and Peter meets his gaze in the mirror. “Didn't mama ever tell you you'll go blind if you do?”

He ducks the hand that comes to ruffle his hair with ease. “What?” he asks, baffled by Wade’s actions.

“Stop hogging the sink.”

Peter sidesteps begrudgingly, snapping on his hairnet and pulling on his gloves without raising his eyes to the mirror again. If anything, it was weirdest to remember that Deadpool actually had a face, when he was so used to the mask.

He beats Wade back to the kitchen, where Gladys has abandoned the hose and resumed her typical job of carefully managing the actions of fifteen other people. Today seems to be some kind of sandwich day, since Peter notices several people working at slicing bakery buns at the island.

“Gloria, make sure your team doesn't undercook that pork. I want a thermometer at every cooker. Beth, do we have any pasta left over from yesterday's spaghetti?”

The woman in question bustles to the fridge door, hauls it open, then calls her reply over her shoulder. “Yes, but only enough sauce for one or two people.”

“Then make a pasta salad with the leftovers. I'll put Peter on your team.” Gladys doesn't need to threaten him with the hose; he glues himself to Beth's side without a word, and shortly finds himself nearly up to his wrists mixing up the creamy sauce. There's a long wire that runs underneath the cabinets, with little clips every few inches that hold the recipes; the continuous motion of the wire, as recipes are clipped and unclipped and slid back and forth down the line, makes his instructions bounce up and down merrily as he works.

“When you finish with that,” and Beth clips another recipe in his line of sight, “I need you to make the stuff for coleslaw. Quadruple that.”

Peter sighs, gives the mixer a few more seconds on the pasta salad cream, then scrapes the sides down with a spatula. Everything looks well-blended, so he passes it on down the line to his neighbor, Chester. Gladys appears immediately, peering over his shoulder with a hawkish look.

When she withdraws again in silence, he assumes the sauce meets her approval. So he moves on to the coleslaw, jumping between fridge and pantry and other work stations in order to collect all the ingredients he needs. This takes much less time than the pasta salad did, and a few minutes of whipping later has him holding a very full bowl of mayonnaise-based sauce.

“Take that to Mr. Pool,” Beth offers him breathlessly as she passes, weighed down by a heavy tray of delicious-smelling pork fat and bones; Peter peers down his line of companions to the opposite end of the long counter, where he can spots a massive bowl of shredded cabbage.

Wade has started adding carrots to the large grinder, little strips of bright orange littering the hill of pale green, and Peter can't help but frown. “Who's supervising you?”

“No one.” Another carrot gets shoved into the grinder, the hum of the machine turning briefly into a gargle. “Can’t have too many hands working this machine. Might end up with the wrong kind of finger food.”

“They let you have your own station?” His voice comes out half petulant, half accusatory; and Wade matches his attitude with a rather gleeful expression that crinkles the corners of his eyes.

“Jealous?”

Peter can’t tell if he’s actually sticking his tongue out from under the surgical mask, but there’s enough of the thought in his face and voice that Peter can’t help but frown. Honestly, he kind of is - especially since he grew up cooking with his Aunt May, thank you - but he is trying to not lower himself to Wade’s level.

Gladys catches his eye from across the room as she side-steps towards the sink. He follows her gaze to the spray hose.

“No,” is all he says, a little bit too much emphasis in his tone, and Peter shoves the bowl of sauce into Wade’s arms. The thin plastic gloves over his hands are starting to feel a little humid, so he peels them off, washes his hands again, and replaces them with a fresh pair before he heads back to his station.

Peter Parker has a job to do, and he’s not going to let _anyone_ ruin it for him.


End file.
